Antonio - Venice
He felt it there; a slight movement, a breath of air close to his face. But all was black. Then a sound like tiny shifting stones or soft leaves underfoot. He turned slowly; all he could see was black. Only after his eyes became accustomed to the absence of light did he see another eye watching him; not a human eye. Moments later he heard the rustling of wings and felt the movement, a flutter against his cheek. He twisted round and felt its presence as it settled in the far corner of this shed. The air that was already cold in this season of the carnival, now turned icy.
Antonio had no idea how the bird had got inside the shed. It was his – this place of sanctuary for him where no-one, not even Gino could find him. He thought it may have been wounded - trapped there – have come in one night with him but unseen and Antonio rarely came in the day for fear of being discovered. Maybe it even came in with him tonight. He needed to set it free perhaps and moved towards the entrance. There were bars placed horizontally across the wooden door and hearing no sounds outside except the distant noise of the music from the carnival he slowly and silently took away the bars. There was a movement. Suddenly the bird moved towards him and as the door was ajar he saw it was a black feathered eagle. As Antonio opened the door wider the eagle splayed its wings and he saw the wide extent of their reach before it brought them back, softly brushing his arms as they came to rest. It bowed its head against Antonio’s chest and with another sudden movement took off into the night sky where now Antonio could see the black form against the lighter sky – lighter from the shadow of the moon behind some clouds and the distant candles and smoke of the crowded alleys by the Grand Canal.
As he lay back down on his makeshift mattress he wondered if it had been a dream , as in the song. He lay there for some time, not afraid but unsettled. He knew it had been there for a reason either in a dream or in reality. The distant sounds of singing and music seemed to ease him into a sleep that would never be deep, only deep enough to allow him to stay alert. In the morning, before there were any sounds of movement in the alleyway outside, he rose, knowing he would have to return to that other place to face the shouts, the physical threats and taunts, as he needed things from there that he couldn’t hide anywhere else at the moment; and he needed to remain there and to inhabit the other public spaces in his city while he made his plans.
As he was leaving he noticed it. A single black feather, lying on the ground. He picked it up and slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. This was not the eagle from any dream. He had no idea what it signified; save that it signified something that would be important for him.
540 words
i n s e r t
an icy grip • mary linard
My god it’s cold! Salty water churning round my head, bubbles streaming in my nose and ears. Feeling the pressure of that water tightening round my body. I can’t tell if I‘m upside down or not. Which way is the surface? Just when I think again that I am surely facing imminent death by drowning, that vice-like grip on my wrist seems to haul me up to it again. I manage a nano-second breath and then I’m plunging deeper again into what seems to be the fathomless deep. And so cold. So dark. Tumbling and turning in the rip, I’m trying to kick my way up to the air but nothing is helping. He’s still pulling me, my wrist and hand feel dead. Maybe I am dead, I’ve drowned? Then how do I know he is still dragging me along, if I’m dead already why wouldn’t he just let go?
No, he’ll never let go, even if I’m dead he’ll pull me out of this water, onto the beach. Drag me higher past the high-water mark before he too collapses from exhaustion. Because it’s my son Will who has hold of me. He’ll never let me drown, unless of course he will drown too? Then will it be me that caused his death, made his children fatherless? I’m drowning, but I’m feeling so guilty. Is this the part where my whole life is supposed to flash before my eyes? I can’t see a thing behind my eyes, I’m much too focussed on trying to stay alive – just one more minute. One minute at a time I think. He’ll get us out of here, I know he will.
There’s a lighter sensation in my face. I’m up near the surface again. “Kick” I say to myself “Kick godammit, Nancy, kick, keep kicking”. My legs are so heavy. My kicks are so, so ineffectual, it’s no good, just let me die now, drowning is supposed to be a peaceful way to go? I always wish I’d been a stronger swimmer. Oh sure I can do a few lazy laps of a nice calm pool, but I’ve never been fearless in the waves. I get my head up for another brief second, grab a lungful of air and water through my mouth, breathe in gallons more through my nose, now coughing, choking and suddenly diving down again into the roiling, dark water. And still the icy cold grip clamping on my wrist. My shoulder is pulling out of its socket I think – irrationally. Why are you even conscious of your shoulder? I’m somehow able to reason this though I’m 7/8 drowned?
All at once, the pressure of the water changes and I feel it stop pushing me downward. I think I’m out of the rip, but who knows where I am now, and how far from the beach? There must still be a tiny pocket of air left in my lungs, I must to get to the surface, I have to. This might be your last chance Nancy, “Kick. Kick like the crazy madwoman that you are”. My legs are flailing in every direction, then with one last, almighty effort, suddenly my legs feel free and there is air in my face.
Awakening with a sudden jolt, my heart still beating fast from the effort, I see all the bedclothes in a heap on the floor. Not a dream. That was a nightmare of epic proportions. I glance at my arm, my wrist is intact, no sign of the vice-like grip that held me afloat in the dangerous rip. I have to call Will today, tell him how he saved my life and how much I love him.
622 words.